


Time

by gaygreekgladiator (ama)



Category: Spartacus Series (TV), Spartacus: Blood and Sand
Genre: Ficlet, M/M, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-13
Updated: 2012-11-13
Packaged: 2017-11-18 13:32:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/561604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ama/pseuds/gaygreekgladiator
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>tumblr prompt from LeTempest: Barca watching one of his boyfriends. Then somehow angst happened, because duh, Barca.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Time

**Author's Note:**

> Set in the early days of their relationship.

Barca watched contemptuously as Pietros outfited the new recruits with wooden swords and spears. Half of them were farmers, better suited to hoe and plough than a weapon. They held their gifts with trembling, awkward hands. The other half thought themselves warriors, which was even worse. They eyed the practice weapons with scorn, certain as they were that they deserved hand-carved ash and glinting steel and gilted gold. He estimated that one of the so-called fighters would survive, and perhaps two of the farmers.

His gaze fell on Pietros, and the barest hint of a fond smile curved his lips—no one but Pietros and perhaps the gods would have been able to detect it.

Despite his lack of formal training, Pietros was not ignorant about the use of weaponry. He tended all of the swords in the ludus, metal and wood, checked their balances and honed their edges. He wasn’t frightened of blades; Barca had a thought that you could press a knife to Pietros’s neck, and he would turn it away and keep walking, unfazed. It was  _people_  who frightened the boy, not their swords.

Under different circumstances, the boy could be a gladiator, Barca mused as he watched the elegant ripple of Pietros’s muscles when he moved. He was tall and—lean, yes—but not unduly skinny, and he had the grace and sharp gaze for fighting. But that was the trouble with boys born into slavery and raised in villas; years of underfeeding and soft labor had made him weak. It would take too much gold to give him the bulk and the instincts a gladiator needed.

Privately, Barca preferred it that way. He had been in love with warriors before, and death had carried each of them away in their time—he wanted  _time_  with Pietros. He wanted time to smooth protective hands over the boy’s arms when he was frightened, submit to his gentle nagging, and memorize the crook of his smile. He wanted to be touched by hands that had known steel, but never blood, work but never battle, pain but never cruelty.

Pietros turned and met his gaze. He ducked his head with a pleased, embarrassed grin, and Barca wanted to kiss the back of his sun-sweetened neck.

 _Time_ , he thought, and waited.


End file.
